BANG! magazine no. 9 - mar2011

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take back the flag river donaghey

a local's guide to mt. hood bronwynn manaois

mustaches with sunglasses steven weeks

a practical guide to corruption in central america, pt. 2

james corwell

t oh, my diner!

jackie varriano u back to basics

laura lee laroux a wind day

hunt haldeman g bang! book club

steven weeks j auteurs of filth

ryan nyberg l bang! month in review

news briefs z music stuff

collin gerber/bronwynn manaois x horoscopes

TEAM BANG! MANAGING EDITOR. Bronwynn Manaois ART DIRECTOR. Steven Weeks SALES. Mark Sullivan CONTRIBUTORS. Ian Axe, James Corwell, River Donaghey, Collin Gerber, Hunt Haldeman, Laura Lee Laroux, Josiah Mankofsky, Ryan Nyberg, James Stegall, Tim Sullivan, Jackie Varriano

AFFILIATIONS. American Mustache Institute, British Chicken Association, Chicago Beer Society, Doodlers Anonymous, International Union of Mail Artists, Midnight Funk Association

Š 2011 Bang Paper, LLC. It really does feel like an alien landscape.

DA

LETTERS PAGE February in the Northwest is like a bipolar bitch trying to manage her imbalances “naturally.” One moment she’s all sweetness and light, and the next she’s the ice queen with a biting glare.

She entices you with the sunshine and flowers routine and makes you almost forget the torrential downpours and wicked winds around the next bend.

Oh, there were good times, all right. Like the holiday that we all tried to act like we hated but were still secretly wishing for some token of love—a card, flowers, socks…anything. And our birthdays, celebrated with all of the pomp and circumstance of a firecracker that just sort of fizzled for a second then was out.

We had a re-re-release party that filled our hearts with joy that so many of you loved us, or maybe you were just there for the cute-boy bands and the beer—who can really ever be sure?

But March is here now, with the sweet promise of Spring, and that crazy chick mellows out a little bit with some vitamin D intake. The lion turns to a lamb again, softening before your very eyes, and you start to forget the turmoil she put you through.

Our March’s winsome smile makes you stop in your tracks—ahh! she is so damn beautiful! And her eyes are so bright they kind of hurt yours, because you’ve been living in the dark so long. So you reach for you shades, grow out your ‘stache, and sit down with this month’s copy of BANG! (Just watch out for that Ides thing. Don’t say we didn’t warn you.)

Et tu, Brute? enjoys dialogue with its readership community.

BRONWYNN & STEVEN

BANG!

w e Dear BANG! Magazine, I like your new layout. You have come a long way since The Dropout. What I don’t like, though, is the essay, “Don’t Trust Anyone Under Thirty” by River Donaghey.

Donaghey makes an interesting argument about the relationship between the Hipster culture and MySpace. The idea that Hipsters are image-based and hollow has been discussed again and again in the past ten years. Adbusters may have summed it up best in their article, “Hipsters: The Dead End of Western Civilization,” which Donaghey quoted.

My problem is not the point Donaghey is arguing. It is the way he, like in countless other articles, comments on the problem and leaves it at that. I finished “Don’t Trust Anyone Under Thirty” with a feeling of hopelessness. A feeling that kids are growing up without the ability to discern substance over image, and someday these will be the people running our world.

What is the next step? How do we change this? Where is the call to action?

The first step is admitting you have a problem. But that doesn’t do any good when there isn’t another step. Don’t just complain, River. Tell us what to do about it. I want a call to arms.

FRANK SAUNDERS

Take Back the Flag

by River Donaghey

dedicated to frank saunders and his call to arms

love you all.

http://www.bangpaper.com

facebook.com/bangpaper 385 W 2nd AVE B EUGENE OR 97401 541.337.3926

S

omewhere on Lantau Island in Hong Kong, a statue of Gautama Buddha sits with a left-facing swastika outlined above his solar plexus. His earlobes droop like a kid who gauged his ears too big. Long before Hitler wrote the swastika represented “the struggle for the victory of the Aryan man,” followers of Gautama Buddha stamped it on his chest. To them, it was “the heart’s seal.”

The swastika is a symbol, and symbols hold no intrinsic meaning. They are only sponges for the meanings bestowed on them.

Somewhere in the suburbs outside of Boston, Massachusetts, my father’s cousin, Ellen, turns to me before we walk into her mother’s house.

“You better take off that jacket,” she whispers, as the front door opens. “My mother is gonna throw a fit if she sees you sit on Old Glory.”

I forgot about the 4" by 6" American Flag pinned to the bottom section of my coat until Ellen mentions it. She assumes I pinned it there to disrespect the flag. That it’s a big “fuck you” to my country.

These things happen a lot.

People see the way I fetishize patriotism and assume that it’s a joke. People don’t see my American spirit as anything other than satire.

Somewhere in Burlington, Vermont, I sleep in a triangular college rental nicknamed “The Wedge.” A bunch of kids accept me as their own

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because we all have similar Hipster uniforms.

This guy with eyewear that looks like he popped the lenses out of Ray Ban Aviators and turned them into prescription glasses offers me a beer. Miller High Life, The Champagne of Beers. The Cristal of Cheap American Lagers.

“Why do you wear that American flag bandana?” he asks me.

“I love America. It’s my country,” I tell him. The boy with the Aviator eyeglasses laughs like I am joking.

“Fuck America, man!” He cries, and holds up his High Life for a toast.

I pull out my wallet and show him the American flag printed into the black leather.

His smile falters. I unzip my American Apparel hoodie and slip my arm out, exposing my tattoo of the continental United States. He tips his head to the side and raises his eyebrows. People see the way I fetishize patriotism and assume that it’s a joke. They don’t know what to do when they realize I am serious.

The boy gives me an uncomfortable look and lowers the golden can of beer.

Somewhere in New Orleans, I’m sitting in the house of an old friend of mine.

He joined AmeriCorps and moved to Louisiana to help with the lingering Katrina clean up.

“One of my roommates is some sort of right-wing activist,” he tells me. “Him and

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I had a dream I watched Rush Limbaugh rip a flag pin from his lapel he turned his face towards the TV screen and he began to yell: “This flag’s been stolen by Burnout thieves.

The Faggots, the Hipsters, the Pinko Hippies.

If I could ask you all, kindly please, don’t think it a part of me.”

He threw the pin down and he stormed out I could hear it bounce as it hit the ground.

I woke up tangled in my sheets, I was hard and I was proud. his buddy planned this whole Adbusters sells American thing to bring down a com- flags with each of the fifty pany called ACORN. There stars replaced by fifty differwere all sorts of press swarm- ent corporate logos. Modified ing this house, day and night. versions of the American flag But that was before I moved adorn dirty bumpers of cars in.” parked outside natural food I take a pee and see the stores. Flags with a peace roommate in question, may- sign where the stars normally be five years older I am, sit- go. Flags with inverted colors. ting in his room with the door Flags with rainbow colored half closed. He’s typing on stripes. All this does is furhis laptop and doesn’t notice ther reinforce the conservame. Over the twenty-some- tive right’s claim to the true thing’s shoulder I can see a American flag. big American flag pinned up Somehow, Barack Obama’s on his wall. election has rallied the ReSomewhere in Austin, Tex- publican Party to speak out as, I am wandering around in unison against him. Somethe Capital Building. When how, the Tea Party has bethe guard isn’t looking, I hop come a movement, while the over the rail and have my liberal youth watches, pasfriend take a photo of me sive; writing impotent, scathstanding at the Texas state ing entries on LiveJournal or senate podium.

Blogger about the direction Outside, a woman in her our country is headed. We late 40s is standing in front sneer at cars with American of the Capital, wrapped in the flag decals because they have American flag. She grins and become interchangeable with shakes, or at least tries to shake, “I’m Voting Glenn Beck/Jesus the hand of everyone walking in 2012” stickers. We let it into the Capital Building or happen. loitering around it. I compliThe American flag is a symment her on her American bol, just like the swastika. And, flag outfit and she compli- like the swastika, it is a blank ments me on my flag pin. slate. If enough people wear When I wave goodbye, she the American flag, it will repwaves back with a sign that resent them. The conservareads, “God bless the Tea tives have been savvy enough Party,” in big block letters. to realize this. If we wear the When did we allow the American flag it will stand for American flag to became a whatever we stand for. It is registered trademark of right- time for us to take back this wing conservatives? And why potent symbol of our country. can’t people believe that I, a We, the young, the hip, the twenty-year-old writer and liberal, need to reclaim this musician, wear the flag with- iconic American image. No out a hint of irony? one gets to take it away from us.

steven weeks

A Local’s Guide to Mt.Hood (not available through MapQuest) by

Bronwynn Manaois

I

am a total gaper. A flatlander. The type the ridgerunners call “yard sale” because my belongings are all over the slope when I crash.

But, I have a secret weapon on the insider’s Mt. Hood—an insider!

This particular local, a dear old friend of mine, has lived on the mountain for almost eighteen years. This, in his opinion, makes him “almost local.” He claims he can show you things even the locals have never seen before, and will guide you wherever you want to go if you buy him some beers. He can be found most afternoons at The Brightwood, on a stool embroidered “Herb”, with a can of Ranier in front of him. You’ll know him by the glimmer in his eyes from the reflection off of countless hours of white.

On the switchback crawl up Hwy 26 to one of Mt.Hood’s four resorts, there is a string of little towns, connected like mycorrhizae through the forest. There are storybook restaurants and fairytale cabins nestled among the snow banks where the locals dwell and go about their daily lives. These are the places to find the true mountain experience, if you are brave enough to look for it and aren’t in too much of a hurry to get back to the city.

Towns like Brightwood, off the beaten path,fifteen miles from the resorts, are where you can find gems like The Brightwood, with good food, cheap drinks and plenty of local color.

Right off the highway in Welches, about fifteen miles from the top, is The Shack, a good spot for good food and music. Government Camp, the ski village made to resemble an Alpine postcard, is home to ski bum classics The Ratskellar and Charlie’s Mountain View. Charlie’s Mountain View used to have just that—

a perfect view of the mountain while sitting at the bar, until a tourist chalet parked itself right in the way across the street.

Charlie’s is the place to be now, with a warm wood stove, good menu, and locals still in their snow gear. The Ratskellar, affectionately called “The Rat,” was the quintessential punk rock, rowdy snowboarder bar where you could wager on a fight breaking out or at least something getting smashed other than cute, blonde, skibunny types. New owners tried to make the place classy or something about five years back, so the locals had to take over the previously quiet Charlie’s and make it their own.

For a true insider experience, stop by the Oregon Trail Hut. Nope, it’s not a bar, but you will find plenty of locals there at night, drinking beers and smoking weed. And you can learn some history while you’re at it. The post office at night is another spot to, um, “go check yer mail.”

Mt. Hood Brewing Company, now the Ice Axe Inn, is good for the family crowd and close to the Summit resort for tubing and a beginner ski lift.

Timberline has the classic hotel lodge where The Shining was filmed. Plenty of photo ops there for us gapers. The flat terrain deems it not first choice for advanced skiers in the winter, but in the spring they open Palmer, the upper lift, that leads to good out of bounds.

Mt. Hood Meadows is the biggest resort, and is famous for its terrain park for both skiers and snowboarders. But Skibowl is the place to go on a good powder day. During the week, they don’t open until late afternoon, boasting “America’s

largest” night skiing resort. Locals go for fresh tracks there after a morning session at “the Meadows.” Those in the know can take a breather at Imbob’s Knob, a shack built at the top of Tom, Dick and Harry in the outback, in honor of a well-loved local that passed on in ‘98.

Park at the Summit lot and hitch a ride up to Timberline to ski the Alpine Trail back down to your car, or the Glade Trail down to Charlie’s, where you can ski right on in to the bar.

There are also plenty of snowshoeing, cross country and snowmobile trails in the area for those of us who are feeling a little creaky in the knees, or a bit daunted by lack of health insurance. Timothy Lake is a favorite.

You won’t find locals on the slopes on the weekends for two major reasons. First, they all have to work to make the tourist bucks and second, the tourists themselves. They don’t call us gapers for nothing! Apparently, there’s nothing worse than a few thousand people moving into your town each weekend, acting like they own the place because Visa and Benjamin say so. But, come willing to learn and buy a local a beer, and you’ll have a friend for life.

Our guide would like to caution folks to only try the local spots if you are a good skier and pay attention to what you are doing and to the weather.

People are killed and lost every year because they think it’s all fun and games.

Oh, and naked snow angels are fun when there’s a hot tub around.

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The dance craze that is sweeping America:

Mustaches with sunglasses by sTEVEn wEEKs

John Waters

EVERYONE’S DOING IT! Leon Redbone Tom Selleck Burt Reynolds Stevie Wonder Hulk Hogan Michael Jackson Dale Earnhardt Geraldo Rivera Mike Ditka Robert Goulet The Doobie Bros. that guy and that gal!

A

...continued from last issue

practical guide

to corruption in

CENTRAL AMERICA

.

by James Corwell

part two

James Corwell is an American entrepreneur who operates several businesses in [Central American Country] following storied career in Silicon Valley. He lives in a compound on a river and has many dogs. If you can find him, he enjoys visitors.

PRESS CREDENTIALS The most powerful tool a traveler can possess is a Press card. It will allow you to completely bypass the "documentation" process (see Part One) if you have limited time or limited funds and don't want to deal with it. I have dozens stashed in all my vehicles, in my wallet, in my pockets, in my boats: I am paranoid about being caught without one when I need one. They have magical properties if the correct incantations are spoken while producing them. A sample incantation at a police checkpoint (spoken before the officer has a chance to say anything): "Hi, I’m really glad to see you."

(Produce the press card at this point).

“I'm doing a story on police corruption in [Central American Country] and I would love to get a statement from an honest police officer for the story. It's for a newspaper in the U.S. Would you be willing to go on record for the piece?"

You can add or subtract magic words accord10

ing to the situation. Don't worry about having to actually interview the officer. No sane police person would talk to a reporter about perceived corruption while at the task of being perceived to be corrupt. He will politely decline and quickly wave you through. If you do find the rare idiot officer who wants to talk, ask a few pointed questions about his superiors and it will quickly awaken his sensibilities. He will send you on your way.

The press card is powerful, but has risks and limitations. Do not attempt this magic, for example, at a Federale checkpoint on a desolate road late at night. You will merely create additional, and unpleasant work for the person assigned to dig the hole where they intend to place you.

DOCUMENTATION The real art of producing documentation is the subtle play of how much to produce. In [Central American Country], a policeman makes less than a dollar an hour. At a checkpoint, a policeman

If you actually are carrying contraband of any kind—

DRUGS, GUNS, TAIWANESE SEX SLAVES, WHATEVER— and are caught, then the actions that you take within the first few seconds

of discovery will have a profound impact on the rest of your life

will share his proceeds with the other officers lounging by the side of the road and with the police Chief.

The Chief will get about 25%, so if there are three officers total, then a ten-dollar contribution will end up with about $2.50 in each person's pocket—a good take for someone making about a dollar an hour in legitimate salary.

Nothing irks locals more than someone who produces documentation in excess of what is expected. It ruins the system for the rest of us. The police begin to expect more from everyone, and the populace is then burdened beyond any sense of reasonableness.

I might mention that checkpoints for any given location are set up no more than once a week, and frequent travelers reach accommodations with the authorities so that they are not unnecessarily burdened to the point that they are single-handedly putting the policeman's children through school. The police are, by and

large, honest people with hearts, and few truly abuse the system.

So to give more than is reasonable is a crime against humanity. The following are some hard and fast formulas that I have learned from trial and error over the years: • Documentation is inversely proportional to traffic density—the higher the traffic, the less you pay, the lower the traffic the more you pay. This is simple economics: The police must make their personal quota from whatever traffic there is.

• If you stop at a checkpoint and there are four or five cars in line, you can be assured that less than a couple of dollars will be expected from a Gringo. I carry half a dozen cold cokes and beers in a cooler in the backseat and simply reach around, grab one or the other and hand it out the window with a smile. In the late afternoon on a hot day, this will be received with far more appreciation than a few small coins. If you hand a cold drink to all of the officers, you could easily talk them into giving you a protective escort to the next town.

• In low traffic areas, in addition to having to pay more, you will also entail more risk. It's never good to travel lonely roads in Central America, unless you are very experienced or closely wired in to the authorities. However, if you've come down to do a dope score or are determined to visit sweet Crucita in some remote village and have no other choice, then strictly adhere to the following: • Do not get out of the car, even if ordered to do so. Your car is your only avenue of escape. It's a ton or more of steel capable of doing serious harm to anyone foolish enough to stand in front of it, and once underway is difficult to stop. The police here never chase anyone down, in spite of years of watching U.S. Television and action movies. It's too much work, plus they could have an accident. It's not worth it for an unknown quantity. And they won't shoot, unless you've run over one of them while driving off. It makes noise and wastes a round that they must account for when they return to the station—creating potential problems with the higher-ups. Not that I recommend running. It's just that outside of the car you

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have lost the only advantage you have.

• Smile and, if possible, joke. Say something like: "I'd like to stay and chat but I'm in a hurry to meet a girl. Her husband will be back soon." This will go a long way toward communion with the officers and will elicit a sharedexperience type of sympathy.

• Don't wait for them to talk.

Take the initiative. Have your documentation ready as you pull up and simply present it to the nice policeman while beginning your patter similar to the above, or whatever patter is comfortable for you. Never hand cash directly. Slip it in inside your insurance papers, or some other paperwork relating to your car or your journey, with about an inch of the banknote discretely sticking out. I use a Cannon Ixus 530 setup manual with the front and back cover removed.

It’s small, light, and looks like it could be important paperwork for almost anything: Remember: 80% of the police who stop you can’t read. This is a powerful piece of information for the wise.

• Once the officer has removed the banknote, which will be immediate, reach out and retrieve your

THE POLICE here never chase anyone down, in spite of years of watching U.S. television and action movies. laptop manual (or whatever you choose to use), smile, wave and drive off immediately without asking permission, but slowly, without looking back. Doing the job and leaving quickly without appearing to hurry off is the key here. Don't give them enough time to assess you.

The above is a fail-safe formula for back roads if adhered to explicitly. Expect to part with at least twenty bucks. If, on approaching the checkpoint, you judge the police body language to be insolent or agitated, change the twenty for a fifty.

If something goes awry and the above, for some reason, has not worked, then pretend stupidity.

Ask them to repeat everything they say and act bewildered. If ordered to get out of the car, smile broadly and simply drive off. Again: slowly.

If drugs or other contraband are planted in your vehicle by one of the police while another has your attention (a very common occurrence), understand, above all, that there is a zero probability that you will be arrested, unless you add to the "offense" by pissing someone off or otherwise acting unwisely.

The intent is to scare. Under no circumstances deny that it is yours. Say something like "Damn, I thought I left that at home," or "That's the second time I've been caught this week." This will show them that you are a good-natured player and will probably negotiate.

Denying ownership of the contraband will be seen as confrontational—an attitude that brings

high risk when dealing with Third World authorities. The "documentation," however, need not be much. They have chosen an approach to making a living that is universally considered by the locals as "not fair play," and they should not be unjustly rewarded for it.

Sure, they did go to the effort of distracting you, and someone had to go to the trouble to plant the dope, so they deserve something, but $5 is the maximum you need to pay. If they ask for more, then you can safely become indignant.

They will shut up. The locals won't tolerate police that take too much unfair advantage of the system, and your obvious awareness of the correct protocols will alert them to potential trouble if they push things.

If you actually are carrying contraband, of any kind—drugs, guns, Taiwanese sex slaves, whatever— and are caught, then the actions that you take within the first few seconds of discovery will have a profound impact on the rest of your life. The reality is: You have been caught. The officers have options: 1. Arrest you and charge you, where you are likely to confess to other people about exactly what you were carrying and how much, thereby limiting the policemen's ability to make off with much of the cache. Or 2. Come to some arrangement with you that is mutually beneficial and that does not include your demise, or create any undue risks

to the officers’ jobs or safety.

Option two is obviously preferable. To anyone not fond of prisons, that is.

Your first order of business is to assess your situation. If you are in a town or even near one with reasonable traffic driving by, then the chances of your demise, or incurring harm to yourself, are virtually nil if you keep your wits about you. If you are on a lonely country road, and there is only one officer, or even two, your risks could be high, so you will be handicapped in your negotiations.

On your side, you have the option to go to jail and tell your story to lots of people, which generally restricts the officers’ abilities to make money on the encounter.

The higher-ups will take it. On their side, they have the guns, and threats. Ignore the threats. You are fully cognizant of the fact that their sincere hope is that some accommodation can be reached that enriches their pockets and allows you to leave the area without compromising them.

So, first things first. Smile.

There is no circumstance under which a smile will handicap you when dealing with authorities.

Be friendly in your speech and immediately and fully acknowledge your situation, and theirs.

This puts them at ease and sets the framework for negotiation.

Be polite but firm. Let them know that they will not be able to walk off with your entire stash, and do this early on. It creates more reasonable expectations in

12

their minds. If your contraband is drugs, offer them a small hit while talking. It re-enforces, subconsciously, the idea that the dope is your possession and that they are partaking due entirely to your good will. If you are transporting sex slaves, then I must say first that I cannot possibly condone your chosen occupation, but—offering each one of the policemen a taste of the goods may well seal the deal without any additional cash thrown in.

It’s important to be firm without any semblance of hostility. If the policemen tell you, for example, that they are going to confiscate all of the goods, then, with an apologetic manner that implies an unfortunate certainty say, “I’m sorry, but that won’t be possible.”

Shake your head sadly as if you had divulged: “My mom just died.” And this is the point to present them with an absurdly low offer. If you are carrying twenty keys of cocaine or a half-ton of marijuana, then offer them $50.

Alternatively, you could offer them a one-ounce bag of the weed or a gram or so of the coke. If it’s sex slaves, tell them they can look at the bare breasts of one of the least attractive women (in parts of Southern Mexico, this might actually be sufficient).

They will be taken aback at your offer, but it will place any unreasonable expectations they may have in stark perspective. As a rule of thumb, if you are near a populated place, you will ultimately settle by parting with an amount

of cash equal to about 10% of the wholesale value of the goods. On a road with infrequent and unpredictable traffic, maybe 20%. If you are on a desolate road, especially if the body language is not comforting, you may have to bite the bullet, give them the entire wad, plus your car, and ask for a ride to the bus station. Don’t expect the police to accept the drugs or contraband as payment if you are near a populated area. They would obviously be seen transferring the goods to their vehicles.

If you are not carrying sufficient cash, then you are unprepared, and shouldn’t be doing shady deals in Central America.

Never display fear or hostility.

Smile throughout, and crack what jokes you can.

GIFTS When I first moved to [Central American Country], I sent a 42inch plasma TV to the Chief Customs Officer at the International Airport, with a note saying simply: “Thank you for all of your help.— James Corwell.” I included my phone number. I had never met the man and he had done nothing for me. He called me shortly after it was delivered and said “Are you sure you have the right person?”

“I hope so,” I said.

After a brief pause, he said “Ahhhhhhh.”

The following month I unaccountably was only charged $400 customs duty on a $300,000 ship-

ment of goods. I never once called him between the time of the delivery of the TV and the arrival of the goods, and never once asked for a favor.

Gifts occupy a different strata in the system of negotiation. They are used when some future consideration is required, or after an official favor has been provided. Gifts can be small or large, depending on the circumstances and the wise person will have an ample supply ready for any event. I operate seven small businesses in [Central American Country] so my gifting burden is higher than most.

For example, if you want a building permit, and you live in one of the few parts of the country where such things actually mean something, then, unless you want to wait five or more years, a gift to the superintendent of the building department is required. This is in no way considered wrong.

It’s merely a requirement of the system. Or if you live in [Local Town] and expect the fire department to respond to an emergency call on the same day that it’s called in, then a gift to the fire chief soon after you move to town is a requirement. Again, not wrong, merely a demand of the system. It would be wrong of me, by the way, to expect the fire department to respond to a call if I had not previously gifted the fire chief. Gifts of this nature are highly means dependent—that is: people who have little are only expected to give a little. People of means are expected to pony up.

Favors, likewise, are part of the system. They have no negative connotation, and they require gifts whose magnitude reflects the magnitude of the favor.

As an example, I personally ran afoul of one of the local police officers in [Local Town]. It’s a long and dull story involving a local bartender that I befriended and his girlfriend. I have encountered this officer a number of times since our first encounter and each time I have been unduly

harassed. Increased “Documenta- to say, few businesses make more tion,” which normally smoothes than $75,000 per year. over any misunderstandings, had The paperwork requirements not helped our relationship. that plague American and EuroFinally, I asked an intermediary pean businesses are also non-exisfor an introduction to the police tent here. There are no real studies chief, to whom I explained my or plans required for construction problem. I gifted him a 22-inch or development. No hoops to LCD TV, and have had nothing jump through for getting permits, but fine rapport with the unrea- licenses, etc. No one in this counsonable officer ever since. Favors try hires a bookkeeper. The posiof this nature are neither frowned tion is unknown. If records were upon nor are they rare. kept, then any bureaucrat you had One common “favor” that is pissed off could use those records considered questionable is to gift to harass you. There are no safety an officer in the armed forces to requirements or work hazard isprovide armed support for a drug sues to deal with. There are no deal, a revenge raid, an armored laws governing hours of work or car heist, or any similar function. conditions of work.

It’s a very common occurrence but I buy cases of one hundred it’s deemed to be morally sketchy watches for $1,700 twice a year by most of the populace. from a dubious fellow in Mexico.

The reason for this, I believe, is Each watch comes with a nice the sense of unease created by the case and an official looking price image of highly organized, inso- tag ranging from $525 to $1,500. I lent, largely illiterate men with gave Mr. Herato one of the $1,500 fully automatic weapons catering watches. I purchased thirty-five to the whims of anyone with spare notebook computers last year for change. The general consensus is a total of $9,000. I purchased two that the system of “negotiation” hundred folding knives for a cost should stop at the gates of the of $3,500. I purchased fifty pairs military. The military should up- of binoculars for $1,100. I also hold the system, not practice it, as purchase forty flat screen TVs of my friend and philosopher Suzo varying sizes for around $12,000. once said. This is no more illogi- That’s about it. cal than policemen as “officers of I get the occasional request from the peace.” officials that are not in my invenThe fact that SWAT teams ex- tory and I attempt to acquire them ist and every policeman carries a if the favor is large enough. If not, gun and is trained in violent tac- I gently chide the person about tics should alert us to the fact that “taking advantage.” A few times I practicing peace is not the means have been asked bluntly for sexual of choice for most peace officers. favors. Not from myself, but knowing that I am a friend of Suzo— DOING BUSINESS requesting this or that specific individual. I always say, “I’ll see Even with the “gifts,” the cost of what I can do,” pass the request doing business in [Central Ameri- on to Suzo, and then forget about can Country] is way less than it. Suzo has never billed me so I doing business in say, America. can only assume it didn’t happen.

First, there are no bookkeeping Once I was asked by the Chief requirements. Businesses are not Customs Officer in [Large Port required to keep receipts, logs or City] if he could spend a weekend records of any kind other than a at my house in [Capitol City] with total amount of each category at his girlfriend. I said yes, but he the end of the year. If you’re au- never showed up. dited (never happens), a collection If you tally it all up, it’s not so of numbers with no dates or ex- bad. planations is legal sufficiency. The I find the whole process to be total tax on business income—na- intriguing, and it offers limitless tional, local, metropolitan, etc.,— outlets for creativity. is 1.25%, and that only comes into play for businesses making more than $75,000 per year. Needless [End for Now]

13

OH MY DINER!

“if you want hot food,cheap and fast—Springfield is the place”

A foray into the Springfield diner scene

have been eating at diners since the late 1800s. From the first horse-drawn cart hawking sandwiches to pressmen outside the Providence Journal to the switch from “lunch wagon” to “diner” around 1925, we’ve always found comfort in simple food served over a counter by a kind waitress holding a bottomless pot of coffee. It’s unclear when the first diner made its way west, but for whatever reason when they hit Oregon, the diner seemed to be drawn to Springfield. Diners and coffee shops dot the streets, interspersed between strip clubs and antique shops. We can’t figure out if it has to do with the town’s “working man” reputation, or a captive audience with a penchant for kitschy interiors, but if you want hot food, cheap and fast—Springfield is the place.

mericans

PUMP CAFE

14

photos/story by JACKIE VARRIANO

Once you cross over that bridge into Eugene’s sister city, your choices are seemingly endless. To avoid suffering from diner overload, here are a few tips to help you decide where to park it.

If you feel most at home when settled into a lumpy booth, BUSY BEE CAFÉ is the place. Perched on the corner of a strip mall on Main Street, the Busy Bee is known for pie and biscuits and gravy.

Friendly, attentive service, and, as with most diners, your coffee cup is never empty, and your check is on the table before you’ve pushed the last bite into your mouth. Two eggs with hash browns and toast will run you $4.25 while an order of great homemade biscuits with classic country gravy is $3.95. Platter sizes are giant, and the butter/ egg ratio in the scrambled eggs definitely leans more on the butter side.

They’ve got something called a pancake sandwich but the description sounded like it should come with a side of Lipitor. If you finish your entire breakfast and don’t feel your arteries hardening or the urge to vomit, we commend you.

2152 Main Street, Springfield, open Mon to Fri 6 a.m. to 9 p.m., Sat and Sun 7 a.m. to 9 p.m.

Despite being able to get a hotcake the size of your face, the big draw at ADDI’S DINER is Elvis Fridays. David Lomond, aka Elvis, serenades the lucky ones able to squeeze into a booth or table every Friday from noon to 2 p.m.

Get there early, and get a spot next to the Queen of Springfield.

You can’t miss her, she’s wearing a tiara. A tiny spot filled to the gills with old toy machines and dancing waitresses, Addi herself takes orders for house-made chili and chowder, burgers and hand cut fries.

Be prepared to get close with your neighboring tables, don’t be afraid to shout out song requests, and strong arm a waitress for a hotcake to share ($3.25) despite being given the lunch menu. Root beer floats flow like a river, burgers come in quite a few varieties, and there’s nothing on the menu over $10. At the little red diner, it seems that what you see is what you get—the only surprise will come from laughing at one of Elvis’ punny jokes.

207 South A Street, Springfield, open Wed to Sun 4 a.m. to 2 p.m.

Searching for a diner disguised in shabby chic clothing? Look no further than the PUMP CAFÉ. Serving name-brand tea and a signature blend from Cascade Estates Coffee, Pump Café is housed in an old garage where mismatched tables and chairs take the place of naugahyde booths. Antique Watkins tins line the shelves and gas station signs adorn the walls, taking the place of usual Elvis signs and Coca-Cola memorabilia. The low-cal plate actually tries to live up to its name, an egg and toast served with cottage cheese and fresh grapefruit ($7.95) although we wonder if they are as confused as we are on the difference between hash browns and potato pancakes. The dish, two potato pancakes piled high with scrambled eggs, tomatoes, cheese, scallions, sour cream and salsa (served with a fruit cup, $8.95) at first blush seemed like a great signature dish.

Perfectly cooked eggs and great salsa, the only drawback would be the McDonald’s-esque hash brown bricks. Go in hoping for a latke, you’ll be sadly disappointed.

710 Main Street, Springfield, open Mon to Fri 7 a.m. to 4 p.m., Sat 8 a.m. to 2 p.m.

ADDI’S DINER Elvis Fridays

BUSY BEE CAFE

B

acktobasics

Society has drawn farther and farther away from conventional values and traditions.

We headed to a twenty-seven acre farm in the country to travel back in time and explore the beauty of the past. See what happens when these models explore traditional values in modern clothing and accessories.

“Chopping wood” It’s a man’s job—or is it? Travis shows Kim how he likes his wood chopped.

“Courtship rituals” Travis goes a ‘courting, but which sister will he choose?

“Hung out to dry”

When the ladies offered to wash the shirt off his back, how could Travis refuse?

see page 22 for list of clothing in each image

Livity and Sweet Skins clothes found at Sweet Skins Eco-boutique Allihalla, House of Circumstance, Family Jules, and Poseur found at Deluxe Circle Creations Clothing found at Circlecreations.net Revivall Clothing, Naturally Stylie, 16 Coaches, Field Day Wearables, Heather Rand Cuffs, Kae Nelson Belt Pouches, and Azurriah found at The Redoux Parlour MODELS

Meghan Birr, Kimberly Summers, Karla, and Travis Langley HAIR

Misty Bennett for Bloom mistybennett@bloomhairstudio.net MAKEUP

Roxy Allen for Mica Mica Makeup Artistry PHOTOGRAPHY

Beth Kruziki for Meomore Photography www.meomore.com PHOTOGRAPHY ASSISTANT

Amelina Dragonfly

PRODUCER & STYLIST

Laura Lee Laroux

“Let’s go ‘parking’” You don’t have to worry about fogging up the windows when you park this ride. If Travis expects Kim to “ride dirty,” he should at least dust off the seats.

“Down by the banks of the hanky panky…”

Meghan airs her dirty laundry

“Put a (pitch) fork in it-he is done” The ladies are dressed but no longer impressed by their beau.

“Sitting Pretty” Kim awaits her next suitor

Wday ind

fiction. t had been a long winter.

The rain especially heavy, the wind remarkably knifing, the beer was running low. Many a submission had been sent into the quicksand of would-be publishers who wouldn’t be. The loaded nine-millimeter he’d named after the most vicious of his girlfriends sat on the bedside table and spoke softly; a full magazine snapped tightly into place but much like the other mornings, he had not yet chambered a bullet… not until he finished his tea. Then he would lock n’ load, scratch his head and sit in the pattering of rain on rooftop.

It was loose-leaf gunpowder green, and he often times would squeeze a bit of lemon into his mug while the liquid steeped, so as to enliven the drink and it’s bitter tinge. Jennesa waited by the bed, cooing; seventeen hollow point rounds resting in her heavy throat. She was wet with oil and smelled of blasting volleys. His roommate, another young man living on the verge of poverty in the nowhere town they inhabited, was away tending bar to lost men who drank in the morning. A profession he himself admired yet knew he could never uphold; part time at the community college was about all he could muster.

The day before, he’d been sitting in his office when his best student knocked and entered. Looking about the room she grew silent for a moment, then spoke dryly, “You know, all the writers up there,” she pointed to the back of the door, upon which he’d placed portraits of his heroes: Hemmingway, Fitzgerald, Melville, Bukowski, Dr. Hunter S. Thompson. Men forgotten in the wake of Xbox Live, Facebook, and Reality TV. Smiles that haunted his space.

“I mean, they were great. But they all killed themselves.” Said the student.

“Not all of them,” he protested. “Some of them were just terrible drunks who died alone.”

“Same thing.” She chirped, sitting down in the adjacent chair and removing her newest works of poetry for his critique.

“Bless you child.” He spoke now to the empty bedroom. Tea steaming from the mug, he was almost finished. It was becoming a resolute understanding of his that he and the few like him would die in the gutters of strip-malls, choking on the feigned cynicism of idiots. He was trying to take this realization well, but it was, as his grandfather would say—a hard pillow to sleep with.

The clock mocked him. The armchair in his little excuse for a living room creaked under him.

Sixty minutes tick-tocked and stabbed. He stared at the wall. Long ago he’d listened to the advice of a gnarled construction worker. The man was a lanky specimen; one of the kind who worked ten stories up on the high rises of skeletal soon-to-be important edifices. “Helps if you wake up an hour early before working, just to stare at the wall.” The man said.

The construction worker had a retirement plan; he had medical coverage, a steady salary and a union. The writer had a small glowing computer screen, multiple collegiate degrees in his craft, and food stamps. He recalled the look on the face of 20

by

Hunt Haldeman

the man at the welfare office when it came time to stand in line and present his justification of poverty in the form of paycheck stubs.

“You a professor or something?”

“Yeah.” There was bile and shame in the admission.

“Whata you teach?”

“Language arts.”

“What?”

“English,” he vomited.

“And that’s all you make?”

“It’s part time.”

“But that’s all you got for October?”

“Yes.” And though it burned in a soft place of his, the pain still did not hurt in the way that other conversations often did. Conversations held in the company of others his age. In the lap of gettogethers that he often dragged himself to, for fear of some creeping sociopathic alternative. Conversations with the successful and vapid late twenties crowd—the ones who’d finished undergrad and went to work for their parents, the ones who went to law school and quietly hated themselves for it; the ones who cried in their sleep while they flew in their dreams. How we wished he could be them but knew that he would never be.

“So you’re a writer?”

“Yes.” The etching misery of this reply felt like a confession of infanticide or necrophilia.

“What do you write about?” and it was here that the knife twisted, here that the steel fingers of complete and utter upheaval took to the trachea and muted all significance of any response. And there were many responses. Canned, camouflaged ready-made versions of the same silent prayer: Please God let this person stop trying to figure out the horrible thing that has forced me throughout the years to sell my soul to the same place that all my dead drunk heroes sold their souls to. Please God make these assholes go away. Because there is nothing that one writes about, there is only that one writes. So there is no real conversation to be had and no answer to such inquiry. There is only silence, chatter, and prayer.

Thirty minutes remained before he was to drive to the campus. Thirty minutes before the job caused him to bury his thoughts beneath a trapdoor of cellophane and lies. The tea was finished.

He’d traversed the hallway and placed himself in the bedroom. Jennesa curled into his hand. Perhaps there would be no lecture today after all. He chambered a shiny coppercolored bullet and that mid-pitched sharp metal click-clack felt like the pending of something that surpassed balance.

Silently he massaged the barrel to his temple and imagined that today he would be strong enough. Strong enough to have the last word. Strong enough to quit any job, forever; Strong enough to disregard the faces of his family; Strong enough to accept that nobody read anything anymore (except sometimes on their Kindles and that didn’t really count).

Strong enough to pull the trigger and call down the blackness he dreamt of when the shadows came; the loping twolegged dog-headed apparitions that flashed at him from the corners. Today he would be strong.

Laughter. More and more laughter as he listened to the ringing of his telephone that sat on the coffee table. He could answer the phone or he could kill himself and the difference between these two choices was beyond humorous to him. What juxtaposition could be more indicative of free will? He contemplated which act would be that of surrender and which would be that of courage. He pointed Jennesa to his heart, because long ago he had come to terms with the fact that he would never shoot himself in the head—the brain embarks upon a magnificent journey as the body begins to die: hallucinations and revelry await. His heart was always the problem, and a single, well-placed 115-grain full metal jacket emissary could remedy such a thing. The phone continued to ring.

Something had broken in him a week ago and he’d decided to create his own holiday for the dead. Veterans had their day—the bloodthirsty Caucasian imperialists, the forgotten presidents and the civil rights martyrs as well. Writers should have their holiday, he thought. He’d come to this conclusion after whiskey and a long conversation with one of the writers he’d gone to school with. This conversation had spurred him into action. So, in accordance with said correspondence he printed out every piece of writing he’d ever written. The fruit of hours, compiled in the blood of pages.

The venom-milk that had kept him alive in those bright coffee shops and those dark bars where a keyboard and the blank halls of snapping insanity pricked him onward. The novels he’d spent years kneading and slashing, reading and re-reading, submitting and mourning over. He printed them all out. A heap of white pages that could not be managed with only two hands, was placed into several stacks and set upon his doorstep for the wind. Though other writers did not necessarily have the dismal landscape of Alaska at their

disposal, he did. Where he dwelt, the wind was angry and wild. No sooner had he placed the stack out on the porch did the wind begin to blow the sheets all over the concrete walkway and the street. Passing trucks added to the haste of some pages as they fluttered into the gutters and absorbed foul liquid of random variety. It had taken days for the stack to be completely gone, and he imagined all forms of chance had descended upon the newly non-existent pages—maybe crows had taken what they needed to nest with, perhaps a homeless man required toilet paper, gremlins may have carried off the rest for purposes unknown to the human world.

In any event, the holiday had been served, although in some sense it felt hollow and improperly un-christened.

Now, a week later, the phone chirped and rang again and he stood, Jennesa still in hand. He answered the machine with a single word greeting. He heard his full name recited to him in question from the other end of the line. He admitted to being himself and allowed the man on the other end of the phone to speak. “ I’m an agent from Krix Lang Literary Agency and we’ve been trying to track you down for the last several days now. I found four pages of what I think was a phenomenal short story of yours and if you’re who wrote it I’d like to offer you literary representation, if you are interested.”

Jennesa fell to the carpet. He gulped down something that crawled up. He spat out laughter and asked the agent, “How did you come across this piece of mine?”

“You know, I know this sounds ridiculous but I found the pages half smashed against the front tire of my parked car when I stopped for gas.”

His eyes opened widely to the agent’s response. He thought about hours he’d invested in the computer, hunting down the names and email addresses of agents who returned his manuscripts to him with pre-formatted rejection letters. He thought of the many times that he had invested what little money he had in agencies that allowed him access to the email addresses of agencies like the one who the man on the other end of the phone represented. He thought of the many hours and many dollars he had spent attending random seminars at random writing conferences throughout the country, in which he was supposed to have learned all the secrets to getting published. He thought about all the conversations he’d had with Jennesa.

“Hello?” the voice on the other end of the phone spoke, “Did you hear what I just said?”

And Jennesa answered. A single booming report caused the agent to pull the phone away from his ear. The wind blew outside. It was angry and wild.

21

illustration

Ian Axe



clothing list from pp. 16-19 HIM Sleeveless top and Alpine 3/4 pants - Circle Creations, Hat - Livity, Wrist cuff Heather Rand

HER Underwear - Allihalla

KIM Skirt - Sweet Skins, Vest - Allihalla, Belt Pouch - Kae Nelson, Purse - Poseur MEGHAN Dress - House of Circumstance

Kim Overalls - Revivall Clothing him Long Sleeve Top - Circle Creations, Belt Pouch - Kae Nelson, Hat and pants models own

Megan/Karla Sheet dress - Field Day Wearables, necklace - Erika Helsing

Left-to-Right Dress - House of Circumstance, Belt - Revivall Clothing, Dress - Family Jules, Bag - Poseur, Spats - Revivall Clothing, Cuff - Heather Rand, Hat - Livity, Vest - Field Day Wearables, Shirt and Pants - The Redoux Parlour

Kim Dress - Sweet Skins, Necklace and Bracelet - Azzuriah, Shoes - model’s own

Travis Hat - Livity

Him Indigo Cedar Pant and Wool Snap Front Shirt - Circle Creations, Hat - Livity Her 50s Style dress - 16 Coaches, vintage hat

22



more fiction.

WANDERING GOAT

INTERVIEWING

by James Stegall

S

houting hangs in the air like white noise. It rises and falls as chants form and fade away. But the pervasive suspense of the noise never leaves their ears. Like ocean waves but unsettling.

David adjusts the scarf wrapped around his face, pulling his headband tighter and then rubbing at his hands obsessively, working the insta-tan deeper into his pale skin, working it up the wrists and forearms. He can taste his breath against the fabric.

He is wearing a t-shirt with something scrawled across it in Japanese, a loose cotton button-down over that.

His jeans are too tight and bite at the waist.

Around the room from him the rest of the group makes variations of the same movements: checking rifles, pistols, the Velcro straps of body armor beneath their street clothes. This is the point when they stop making eye contact, staring instead at the floor, at their hands, the clock and the band of late afternoon sunlight through the broken shades.

The floor is covered in sheets of paper. Office chairs sit in random places throughout the open office, pulled

away from the windows where shots have been landing randomly all week.

Each of the five people in the room wears the same headscarves. He knows none of them, brought to the office building and handed weapons and equipment by a man who is no longer in the room.

A long way from Seattle.

“Today is my spiritual birthday,” says one of the scarf-covered heads across the room. “Today is the day of my success.”

No one answers.

The chanting has grown louder when he opens his eyes. Three syllables and roars. He hears the sounds of grenades: PUFF, PUFF and cans rattling across concrete. Involuntarily, he sniffs for gas but the sounds are too far away, his mind possibly creating details.

He unlocks and reloads a magazine, touches the other magazines strapped to his chest beneath the white buttondown. He doesn’t like the rifle but knows how to use it.

A cell phone rings across the room and one the scarfed heads reaches into a pants pocket. This is their leader.

“The cameras are down. Let’s go.” ...

...this story continued online at bangpaper.com!

— 268 MADISON — EUGENE — wanderinggoat.com —

EVENTS CALENDAR — MARCH — fr iday 9 pm

4

w ednesday 9 pm

9

MARTINI AND JAMES, POCKET HERCULES

5 sat ur day 9pm

COLLIN DONELL WORM ROT

11 fr iday 9pm THE MUSTACHES Wintertime Carousel t uesday 9p m

...this story continued online at bangpaper.com!

15

Ash Borer, Rye Wolves

...this story continued online at bangpaper.com!

17 thursday 9pm

...this story continued online at bangpaper.com!

STRANGLED DARLINGS fr iday 8p m

18

sat ur day 9p m

26

EVANGELIST

19 sat ur day 9pm

MOLESTATIONS

Eugene’s Local Vodka

FULL LUSH

30 w ednesday 9pm Ready Steady Soul Club sat ur day 8p m

www.hardtimes distillery.com

4/2

Dog Shredder, Lozen

tours by appt.

(541)357-8808 23

ANG!

U

L

OoK

C

FOUR ARGUMENTS FOR THE ELIMINATION OF TELEVISION Jerry Mander Quill, 1978

MARCH EDITION 2011 b y s t ev en we e ks

70s FICTION AND NONFICTION TO COMBAT THE MENTAL INSTABILITY COMMON TO INHABITANTS OF THE NORTHWEST DURING WINTER MONTHS

THE JOY OF SEX: A Gourmet Guide to Love Making Alex Comfort, M.B., Ph.D. Fireside Books, 1972



THE EXETER TEXT: Jewels, Secrets, Sex George Perec Editions Julliard, 1972

This 57-page short story uses no vowels but the E 'RULES: 1. The word 'and' may be spelt 'n.'

2. The letter 'y' when consonantal (e.g. 'yes') will be permitted, as will the semi-vowel 'y' in digraphs such as 'they'; only the full vowel (e.g. 'gyspy') will be disallowed.

3. Various distortions will be gradually accepted as the text progresses; no list of them can possibly be given here.'

Introduction

24

Memoirs of an Oregon Moonshiner Ray Nelson Caxton Printers, 1976

And it Came to Pass – Not to Stay R. Buckminster Fuller Macmillan Publishing, 1976

BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS Kurt Vonnegut Dell Publishing, 1973

“Dwayne shoved Bunny's head from behind. He rolled it like a cantaloupe up and down the keys of the piano bar. Dwayne laughed, and he called his son '...a God damn cock-sucking machine!'” p258

According to Hoyle Richard L. Frey Fawcett Crest Books, 1970

25

INEMA is a collective act of creation, but that collective is guided by the creative vision of the director.

Directors make the final decisions and are often the true artists of a project.

And then there are these assholes. I don't know what they bring to the world, but art and guidance are on a totally different chart. In the Venn diagram of life, their names fall right into the "disgusting creative bankruptcy" circle. Each film is like a kick to the nuts of our collective unconscious. But these aren't the Uwe Bolls or Tyler Perrys of the world, those whose oeuvre of cinematic pain parades at least have enough of a characteristic touch to them to warrant their names being known. No, this list is made of those who work silently in the background, making shitty movie after shitty movie, their poor work usually blamed on others. A nameless conduit for the worst Hollywood has to offer. Pay attention to their names, and you may be spared some suffering in the future.

10

DENNIS DUGAN Think of the worst comedy you have seen since about 1990. All of the people reading this article have probably come up with a handful of ideas. Dennis Dugan has probably directed at least most of them. How’s this for a career: Problem Child, Brain Donors, Happy Gilmore, Beverly Hills Ninja, National Security, The Benchwarmers, I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry, You Don’t Mess With the Zohan and Grown Ups. His most recent spitball into the eye of humanity is the Adam Sandler/Jennifer Aniston rom-com Just Go With It, a film displaying such a lack of simple human dignity as to make me want to puke all over my own contempt for everyone involved.

9

AUTEURS OF FILTH Ten Awful Directors You Don't Know By Name

BY RYAN NYBERG

8 BRIAN LEVANT Do you have children? Have you had to sit through an eyeball-fuckingly terrible live action film with cute animals doing things that are supposed to be funny but instead inspire a mild rage that will build until you one day snap and start plowing over pedestrians in your car while singing “Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful”? Thank Brian Levant. This man directed every shitty movie kids made their parents take them to during the early-to-mid 90s.

Starting with Problem Child 2 (that series had some kind of curse on it), Levant quickly moved on to a startling career of mostly dog-based comedy with Beethoven, It’s a Dog’s Life and Snow Dogs. In between directing animals that routinely

26

eat their own feces, Levant also directed Jingle All the Way, as well as The Flintstones and its sequel, The Flintstones in Viva Rock Vegas. More recently he’s brought all the fun and excitement of a long car trip with annoying children to the big screen with Are We There Yet? as well as that lord of all cinematic oxymorons, a Jackie Chan comedy, The Spy Next Door.

STEVE CARR Speaking of Are We There Yet? (a phrase awarded the least likely to be spoken in casual conversation this century), what could be more undignified that directing a horrible Ice Cube comedy? Directing its sequel, Are We Done Yet?, a film so unnecessary it has created a sort of black hole of mediocrity around it, sucking entertainment out of any other film it happens to be playing next to. If you set a copy of Casablanca next to this film and then watch it, Humphrey Bogart will spend the entire movie getting hit in the nuts by a midget with a socket wrench. But that’s not the least of what Carr has brought to the world. As if his scorn for originality could not be limited to one useless sequel, he also directed Doctor Dolittle 2, Daddy Day Care, Paul Blart: Mall Cop (a film that makes me feel weird and sticky just looking at it, like someone has dumped an Orange Julius on my soul) and the upcoming Short Circuit remake.

7 3

SHAWN LEVY Some directors seem to work as a suppressive force on comedy, taking once great comedic talents and ensuring that all funny elements are thoroughly excised so that nothing of interest will reach the screen. Levy’s particular talent seems to be in making sure that Steve Martin doesn’t recover from his years of talent-atrophy and do something of value, something better than say Cheaper by the Dozen or The Pink Panther remake. Levy has also taken on Ben Stiller as a project, directing him in Night at the Museum and its sequel.

Steve Carell and Tina Fey have also joined the ranks of the damned with Levy’s recent opus, Date Night. It’s not so much a career as it is a resume for an agent of the Devil.

BRIAN ROBBINS Some people are called to greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them.

Brian Robbins, on the other hand, has directed a long string of shitty lowbrow comedies that lack even the most basic elements of comedy, such as a plot that makes sense or something funny happening. Do you remember Good Burger? At the time, did you remember thinking, “Why does this movie exist?

Why did they adapt a sketch from a shitty Nickelodeon/ SNL rip-off and turn it into a movie?” Well, that question really has no answer, but part of the reason the film was able to come to being was that Brian Robbins decided he wanted to direct it. From this he went on to take a number of cinematic fetuses and toss them onto the screen as if it were the dumpster behind an abortion clinic. This is the man who looked at Eddie Murphy’s performance in Norbit and said, “Hey, that looks pretty good. I can’t wait to release this movie with my name on it.” And not only did he do that, he decided to do it again a year later with Meet Dave. Brian Robbins: The midwife of shitty comedies.

6 2

JASON FRIEDBERG & AARON SELTZER These two need to be mentioned together, as neither has directed a film without the other, like some sick Leopold and Loeb of ball-crushingly awful spoof comedies. These guys started their directing careers with Date Movie, and were writers for spoof films going back to Spy Hard. Since then, every terrible spoof you’ve heard of has this pair’s special brand of cinematic venereal disease all over it. Epic Movie, Meet the Spartans, Disaster Movie, Vampires Suck; it’s like reading a list of ways to beat kittens to death with hammers. They are to comedy what AIDS is to Africa.

5

TIM STORY Ah yes, Mr. Tim Story. Tell us, Mr. Story, what is your opinion on creating a solid comic-book-based film? Is it to take established characters and explore the essential mythology that guides them, to touch on the depths and purpose of the world in which they exist and to try and find the reason these characters have resonated with generations of fans? Or is to make Mr. Fantastic twist around at a shitty nightclub like some sort of fucked up Stretch Armstrong because you don’t know how to even direct a movie with the level of competence God gave a fucking hamster, as is evidenced by the fact that you are the asshole who directed Taxi starring Jimmy Fallon and Queen Latifah?

Fuck you, Tim.

1

STEVEN BRILL This man would not have a career if it wasn’t for Adam Sandler. If you owe Adam Sandler your reason for being known in this world, then you have failed at existence with the sort of focus and determination usually associated with success. Brill’s first film of any significance was Little Nicky, widely regarded as one of the worst Sandler comedies, in much the same way as the Rape of Nanking is regarded as one of the worst Japanese war atrocities.

From that humble beginning, Brill went on to direct Sandler in the blah Mr. Deeds.

With Dennis Dugan nabbing all the prime Adam Sandler directing opportunities, Brill moved on to direct Without a Paddle and Drillbit Taylor, thus cementing his reputation as a complete fuckwad.

4

BRETT RATNER This is the point in the list in which we move from being shitty-but-unmemorable to being shitty-and-memorable.

Brett Ratner is right on the threshold of that line, with one foot toeing over it. His entire career is like a middle finger pointing at anyone who wants to experience joy in this world. Apart from directing all three Rush Hour movies (think of that for a moment: This man thinks Chris Tucker is funny), he also directed Money Talks and Family Man. To put the icing on the turd, he is also the man behind X-Men: The Last Stand, a movie so ineptly scripted and directed that it retroactively made the other films in the series worse just for being associated to it. The man who would steal jokes from internet memes to spice up his screenplay is not a man I would trust parking my car, so much as helming a multi-million dollar film project.

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TOM SHADYAC So did Ace Ventura: Pet Detective have a director? I bet that’s a question you never even thought to ask. Do you realize that man is not only making films today, but has been continually working since that debut effort? Do you cry at night when you think of the future of humanity? Not only is the “Ventura” auteur still working, but he has had a significant influence on our cinematic culture over the last decade and a half or so since it was release. Shadyac ushered the Nutty Professor series into the world like the screaming, drooling monster it is, unleashed Robin Williams at his most saccharine in Patch Adams and gave us both Bruce Almighty and its sequel, Evan Almighty. The latter, by the way, was at the time of release the most expensive comedy ever made. Think of that: $200 million was spent to create a dull, meaningless Steve Carell comedy. Try not to beat your own head in with a brick when you look at that sentence.

And that’s the real tragedy of this list.

Collectively, these directors have used billions of dollars to make some of the worst movies in recent memory, comedies so bad they make it hard to laugh at anything after seeing them, action films so uninspiring they could not hold the attention of a paralytic whose wheelchair was turned to face the screen. If this money had been given to poor people, or even dumped into a hole and set on fire, the world would be a better place.

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bang! month in review.

“Why, what’s the matter, That you have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?”

ooming government shutdowns in Washington! Revolution and unrest across the Middle East and Africa! Cheeseheads live up to their forbearers’ legacy! For a month that’s generally regarded as a boring bridge from winter to spring, February was a veritable shit storm of dynamism, dread and drama.

As the world seems to burn a little hotter each day, the real firestorm of death and destruction is going completely unnoticed by everyone except that one guy in your complex who you purposefully avoid because all he ever talks about is 2012, and so now you’re stuck doing laundry at three a.m. because, “Jesus man, the Mayans were part of an advanced, diverse culture that used anywhere from fifteen to twenty calendars depending on their chronological needs, so shut the fuck up already.” We’re talking geomagnetic storms here, or what happens when the sun basically erupts to send a wave of solar wind and charged plasma particles hurtling through space.

A storm occurs when a strong enough gust of solar wind meets the earth’s magnetic shield, causing it to compress. A largescale storm has the potential to knock out (for days...weeks... months...), or even destroy pretty much every piece of electronic technology upon which we have built the very foundation of modern society.Think about the people who have a panic attack when they leave their cell phone at home for the night, and then think for awhile about what would happen if most of the earth spent even just a couple weeks without electricity...

Thankfully, people smarter than us are hard at work trying to find a suitable replacement planet once the transmission goes to shit on this one. NASA announced the discovery of up to fifty-four planets that could, in theory, support life by way

of maintaining an orbit within their respective star’s “habitable zone”, the region in a planetary system where conditions are most likely to be hospitable to the presence of liquid water. The findings couldn’t have come at a better time, as a UN sponsored conference this month reported that earth will see an estimated fifty million “environmental refugees” by the year 2020, when the tip of the iceberg food shortages happening around the world today will have reached a breaking point, and mankind will finally turn to cannibalism.

But before the great experiment of human society is chewed and swallowed, where will all these refugees go? To one of the new planets? Disneyland Paris? Or maybe they’ll come to America, as the Census data released early this month shows that we most definitely have the room.One out of every nine homes in America is empty, a fact not helped by the roughly three million homes that have been foreclosed upon since 2008. The hotshot number crunchers in the Bang! Finance Division pored over the data and discovered that it could be years before prices recover enough to the point that all of the banks that have been posting records profits lately mercifully decree to open the lending spigot once more, enabling the peons to buy their homes back at a premium. Then, comfortably settled in your cozy bungalow, as Fox News competes during commercial breaks with a show highlighting the struggles of women desperate enough to

want to marry Vince Neil, you will be reminded that you are an American and you will find peace. And then, when the political furor drag you into the rip tide of public opinion and push you to shout from the rooftops “no more!” you will proudly stand up and be counted, and you will march from your home to your local polling place, the entire journey filling your lungs with that crisp November air that smells so distinctly of sweet freedom, and you will remind yourself once more that you are an American, and you will still wind up voting for the asshole who opened the mortgage loophole that the bank used to kick you out of your house the first time.

It was no surprise to learn that Planned Parenthood is one of the many successful and effective government programs brought before the GOP deficit death panel to answer charges of disloyalty. The Bang! office is especially concerned about the proposal to completely defund the wildly useful sexual health centers, given our propensity for unprotected and uninhibited anonymous sex with dozens of strangers on a day-to-day basis— how on earth are we going to get rid of that rash now?

It makes sense though, without the knowledge and benefit of a comprehensive sexual education, America will never know for sure when we’re getting fucked.

Can we chalk up the midterm elections to a wild drunken night in Las Vegas and just swallow a Plan B already?

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FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 11 SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 6

Americans of all ages from sea to shining sea gathered together in praise and celebration today, on what would've been the centennial birthday of famous B-movie actor Ronald Reagan. Best known for his role as the bumbling, but loveable "Mr. President" on the long running 80s sitcom Morning In America, Reagan transformed the role in such a way that it hasn't been replicated, perhaps until the arrival of Martin Sheen's President Bartlett on the West Wing, but even then only maybe. In the years following showbiz, Reagan became something of a demigod, a right wing hero who showed America the toughness and grace and crack epidemics of a strongly principled man, and for that he's been rewarded by having his name attached to everything in sight.

Of the many policy initiatives that made their way out of the writer's room and onto the silver screen during Morning's eight-year run, Reagan's admirers often cite those that best represent the Gipper's strict adherence to conservative principles, like when he raised taxes eleven times, gave amnesty to three million undocumented immigrants, tripled the federal budget deficit, sold weapons to the Ayatollah, and escalated the Carter practice of funding and arming the mujahedeen in Afghanistan (you know, those guys to whom Rambo III is dedicated, but maybe were offended by Stallone's acting and splintered and formed groups like the Taliban and al-Qaeda, so now America is fighting them. Yes, Reagan really did all those things).

In an interview on the eve of the series finale of Morning, a reporter asked Reagan, the man who gave us such unforgettable classics as Bedtime For Bonzo and She's Working Her Way Through College, if he had any plans to enter the real life world of electoral politics. With a gleam in his eye and that trademark smile, Reagan brushed off the idea with a laugh, saying he was only looking forward to a quiet retirement. “After all,” the ol' man said best himself: "What does an actor know about politics?”

Already awake and feeling the hangover is the great state of Wisconsin, a land that John Steinbeck declared to be "loaded with surprises," though he most likely was not referring to the bomb that newly elected Governor Scott Walker dropped on the Dairy State's public union members.You know, those chronically underworked and overpaid public employees, who have it so good while the rest of us bear the sacrifices of the recession. Oh... nevermind. Most of the discussion seems to focus on issues of state budgets and compensation, but that's a red herring. The purpose of this is destroy all unions and obliterate the last heavy hitters in Democratic fundraising, ensuring that the level playing field the GOP always goes on about applies to everybody but them.

The bill hit Madison like a bat out of John Birch hell, the entirety of which then proceeded to break loose.

Tens of thousands of protestors have, for days on end, holed themselves up in and around the capitol building, and in order to prevent a vote, and Democratic senators saddled on down that ol' dusty trail and headed south of the border to Illinois.In the course of their seemingly indefinite (one hopes) holiday, the senators have endured escalating pressures to return home, separation from their families and staffs, and the prospect of being surrounded by a bunch of damn flatlanders all day.Neither side has blinked, and the implications for the future of America are huge no matter what way the ball drops.

But in a delightful, how could they possibly be that gullible twist, the Bangery is proud to present Mr. Ian Murphy with the Bart Simpson Honorary Biggest Bang! Balls Award for Outstanding Achievement in Telecommunications & Monkeyshines.

Murphy, just a thirty-three year old dude who serves as editor of the BuffaloBeast.com, totally fuckin' owned Governor Walker when he called the capitol posing as David Koch, the billionaire businessman who also happens to be one of the single greatest sources of cash for the right wing politickin' revolutionaries, not to mention one of the single greatest sources of Mr. Walker's campaign funds. He also happens to be a rabid anti-unionist (you think he made billions of dollars by offering dental plans?).The twist is not when Murphy inexplicably is able to get the Governor on the phone, but when he keeps him talking for twenty minutes, hardly saying more than a few words (but in just the right way) to provoke Walker into going on about the protests and his strategy for ending the impasse.

It seems odd that a state still reveling in Super Bowl fever thanks to the only team in the NFL that's named after a bunch of unionized meat workers could, without any grasp of the irony, turn around and take aim for the union jugular. But then again, we're talking about a guy who was dense enough to talk strategy on a pivotal issue with someone whose only claim to credibility was that he dialed a number and said "Hi, this is David Koch." Just last week, right around the time the bottle of whiskey went down like Maxwell House (good to the last drop!) the Bang! gang was bored and kickin’ dirt at the office and dialed up a radio show pretending to be Carl Weathers. It probably didn't help that the show’s topic that day was about coping with menopause, but the screener on the other line caught on to us pretty quick and hung up.

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The Harmed Brothers

HARMED BROS.

by Bronwynn Manaois

Don’t miss them when they come back to Eugene March 26th at the Oak St Speakeasy.

T

hree-piece band, The Harmed Brothers, is helping create a new genre they like to call “IndieGrass.” Feeling the word “Americana” too vague, and eliminating what they are not—Punk, Country or Bluegrass, led to the hybridized moniker.

Ray, on guitar and vocals, is from Missouri. Alex, on banjo, piano (when available) and vocals, is from LA. Recent addition, Adam, on percussion, is from Ithaca, NY. Their influences are so varied; they find when they write music it’s not really to fit “a skin.”

But because they have traditional instruments, their music fits on shared bills with “Straight Bluegrass,” ”Thrash-a-Cana,” “Indie Rock” and “Alt. Country” bands.

The band originated in Cottage Grove in the summer of ’09, and has played throughout the Midwest, Oregon, Colorado and North Carolina and built a great response. Ray attributes their local success to folks being “more crazy” about Americana here than in the South, where it originates. Although they live the migrant life of a touring band, Ray feels most at home in Lane County, “ We have so many friends and family here. If we were to call a place ‘home’ it would be here.”

I caught up with the guys before the “unofficial” kick-off to their upcoming three-month tour at The Axe and Fiddle in Cottage Grove. They were looking forward to living on the road, adding New York to their belt notches and making a first-time appearance at SXSW in Texas.

Their summer tour calendar has not yet been solidified, but they are planning on hitting most of the Northwest festivals.

Alex, who learned how to tune a guitar at age eleven using a Dave Matthews songbook and an old recorder, was shy offstage, leaving the spokesman job to Ray. But as soon as he took the stage, he was in his element, playing severe claw hammer banjo, falling to his knees when the music got intense, and jumping to the in-house piano for sincere, introspective, beyond-his-years songs. True to his words, he “got in people’s face, stripping it down or adding layers.

Whatever the moment needed.”

Ray, who admits to not getting a guitar until after grad school, strikes his guitar like a hot iron, keeping the “happy, twangy” energy alive and filling the role of “cute boy-band haircut lead singer type.” The harmonies are good, and the regular crowd knows a lot of the songs. Understandably, Adam was a bit hesitant to really let his personality show as a new edition to the group, but his drumming is technically solid and I’m sure once this tour gets underway he will hold his own.

Their new album, All The Lies You Wanna Hear, is a road trip companion. With its heavy banjo track and Indie- love song sappiness, the track “One Night” could easily be the anthem to the new “IndieGrass” genre. It is available through CDBaby, iTunes, and the band’s website, www. theharmedbrothers.com. There is also an unreleased live EP, Live From Cougar Mountain available for free download at bandcamp.com. The guys say they have a bunch of new material that they just need time to record, and looking at their tour schedule, that probably won’t happen any time in the near future.

USICstuff

Rockabilly Queen Still Reigns

By Collin Gerber

3.5 out of 5 SUPERSTARS The legendary First Lady of Rockabilly, Wanda Jackson’s new album of classic cover songs makes me reevaluate my idea of how titillated a seventy-three year-old woman can make me, short of a Golden Girls marathon. Accompanied by Jack White on guitar (and production), The Party Ain’t Over is a collection of rockabilly, blues and gospel songs from the fifties and sixties sung by the still vocally illustrious Jackson over the reverberated swamp of White’s picking and a mid-sized band featuring piano and brass. The album opens with a twist-like rendition of Johnny Kidd and the Pirate’s, “Shakin’ All Over” from 1961 and goes on to include covers of songs by the Andrews Sis-

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ters, Bob Dylan, Hank Williams—even Amy Winehouse, and a very interesting version of Johnny Cash’s typically slow, plucked “Busted” done with a full horn section and explosive chorus. The vocals and guitar drip with reverb on nearly every track, giving it a unique feel, yet one that is appropriate for the styling and legacy that Jackson has created for herself. Former boyfriend Elvis Presley did Jackson a favor when he convinced her to start writing and performing rockabilly music in the summer of 1955 instead of the country she was known for in her native Oklahoma, as many of the trademarks of the genre are present and polished on this album.

over night. Then, in the morning, hit the recording studio. Arrange those jars in a semi-circle around a live mic and open them up. Let the tones and buzzes fill the room.

Press it to wax and get bounce to it. Sing to it. Make babies to it.

Aries Mar. 21–Apr. 19:

This spring, cottons, polyesters, silks, linens and rayons are out.

It’s all about the felt. Go on down to the nearest art supply store and purchase it in bulk. Cut out tons of yellow stars and blue moons, red apples and green alligators, purple dragons and orange anteaters. Then sew them onto a big bolt of black felt and stitch the whole thing into pants and shirts, blazers and dresses, hats and skirts, and hit the nearest sidewalk runway.

Questions? Conflicts?

WRITE

stevenjhoneysuckle @bangpaper.com

Taurus Apr. 20–May 20:

Take all the bad advice you can lay your ears on this month. Shave your head, get the rivulets and ravines of your brain tattooed onto your bare scalp and let people see what’s on your mind. To hell with those dirty thoughts. Pierce your nipples, hang a dry erase board from the hoops and let people draw their dreams. Damn the nightmares. Buy a banana board, hike to the top of the tallest street in town, get starkers and bomb that baby. Fuck the wabbles.

Gemini May 21–June 20:

Collect the chaotic chorus at work in your yard this time of year. Create a canal of increasingly smaller cans and distill the sounds from around your house. Record all of the chirps and tweets, hums and beeps, whirs and gusts, and store them in some canning jars

Cancer June 21–July 22:

Have you been waking up most mornings with a brain full of cotton balls and a mouth that feels like you’ve sucked all of the flavor out of an old banana peel? Maybe you haven’t even been waking up in the morning at all but have been waiting for the afternoon.

Whatever time you are getting up, continue washing yourself up and down and recreating whatever leads you to your morning maladies, just drink more water.

Leo July 23–Aug. 22:

You’re absolutely filled with the crooked lust this time of year. Air it out. Find an open field and drop cloth with each step into the tall grass and wild flowers until you’re in the middle and bare as on your birthday. Do the arms spread, head back, eyes to the skies thing and let that lust radiate out. Stand there for a while with the breeze blowing by. Be sure to check for ticks afterward, though.

The crooked lust isn’t worth getting Lyme disease over.

Virgo Aug. 23–Sep. 22:

You often awake without any memories of your dreams but with a strong sense of their urgency. Tonight, tomorrow night and the night after that, attach a funnel to a beaker, put the open end at the edge of your pillow and sleep with your mouth wide open.

In the mornings, put the saliva you’ve collected on microscope

PUZZLEtime SUPER MAZE NO. 1

Instructions Go from one square to the other.

There are several ways of solving this maze.

PUZZLE BY DAVE PHILLIPS

31

slides and examine them. You should be able to undress your dreams and their secrets under the magnified eye.

Libra Sep. 23–Oct. 22:

Pucker up and reach out your limber lips for the heathen’s softly loosing kiss. Give that secular son/daughter-of-a-free-thinker a warm and snug hug white you’re at it. Get to feeling right. Buy them a drink in return… get them bombastically boozed in fact. Let’s be honest here, it’s pretty much the very least you can do. Really, you might want to think about having his/her babies to really show your gratitude.

Scorpio Oct. 23–Nov. 21:

Going to college these days is oppressively expensive and stranglingly debt demanding. It’s time to tell FAFSA to go and masturbate because it’s not fucking you anymore. Become an independent scholar. Issue yourself your own diploma courtesy of the honorable University of You. There are plenty professional-looking layouts on Microsoft word. Pick, print and sign. Put some official looking gold sticker on there, too.

Now you’re officially educated.

Congratulations, college grads!

Sagittarius Nov. 22–Dec. 21:

You’ve grown a damn shaggy mane over the past few months.

What will you do with it? Throw some locks? Twist up some braids? No. Get something newer.

Something more modern. Get the latest style in coiffurey. Plow some furrows in that head of hair, then plant some corn seeds and water daily. In two to three weeks, you’ll have the most authentic sweet corn rows ever.

Capricorn Dec. 22–Jan. 19:

There’s just too damn much ambiguous sexuality going on these days. You can’t be certain of anyone’s sexual preferences just by looking at them anymore.

It’s high time for some honest clarity. Let’s start being transparent. Start introducing people by including their sexual orientation.

“This is my heterosexual friend Amanda,” or, “I’d like you to meet my omnisexual roommate Steve,” or, “Meet my androgynosexual associate Pat.” Something like that.

Aquarius Jan. 20–Feb. 18:

Instead of angels and devils on their shoulders, the modern wo/ man only has some fake fucking sleaze-ball in the tower of their psychic panopticon eyeballing everything. It’s time to throw that vicious, hateful, scared and loathsome voyeur from the heights of your mind. Let its brains paint the tips of your shoes and be done with it. You don’t need it eating away at you, its eroding and second-guessing whispers in your ears. Get free!

Pisces Feb. 19–Mar. 20:

It’s never too early to plan your own funeral, to write those last wise words and hateful missives, that guest list and shocking revelation, those final instructions.

You don’t want to end up surrounded by daisies, reeking of formaldehyde, with a face painted like an expiring 1950s French prostitute. You should also write a preemptive tell-all autobiography.

You don’t want your life left to be pieced together through your Facebook posts and excavated e-mails.

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